


love drunk

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 23:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12352530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: she's drunk and she wants to kiss him.





	love drunk

She’s drunk, and she stands waiting for the tube swaying slightly as her knees and joints  disobey orders, Jaime is beside her, slipping an arm round her waist as they wait for a train – four minutes. She wants to kiss him, like the other people she spots pda-ing without shame, and then they board, minding the gap and letting other people off. As the train moves off, she leans into Jaime who is accepting of her weight and limblessness, and he’s smells nice and she can feel his day old stubble on her cheek as she brushes against him, and how easy it is to cling to him as the tube stations roll away. Her mind is heavy, full of cotton wool and alcohol, she wanted to get drunk for once, a hellish week and Jaime didn't mind tagging along, hearing her sigh and bitch about work, and now he is so close, he’s holding her up, looking at her. Perhaps she should kiss him, right there and then but then they arrive at their station and totter out, clinging on to the escalator before they walk home along leaf blown streets until they reach their homes, her flat on top of his. He’s looking at her again, slips a strand of hair behind her ear and sighs, pulls at his lip with his teeth like she normally does when she's nervous but he can't be, he never is.   
  
Blue eyes, he murmurs, his nickname for her.   
  
She’s suddenly holding her breath and her mind clears in painful waves, because she wants him so much it hurts, more than the ache she's had for years, but something sharp and insistent and she can't ignore it anymore and she can't keep it in anymore. She leans forward, eyes closed, and presses a kiss on him and finds he’s warm and soft, and after a moment his grip on her tightens and he kisses her back. She says his name after they pull apart and it makes him smile and stare even harder at her, there’s an urge to apologise even now but she doesn't want to use her mouth for that but only to kiss, to kiss him.   
  
They end up in his flat, pulling at coats and jumpers before crashing to the sofa. His hand passes under her shirt and she flinches at his cold fingers. He stops then, pulls back from mouthing at her neck, her collar bone. He looks cross and she wants to smooth away the frown lines, and if she'd asked, he would have said that he was fucking nervous which was ridiculous but he would try to give her a good time and God, he didn't mean it like that and that he was going to stop talking now. She knows nothing about what one is supposed to do but she wants something, him to fill the urge in her. She pulls him back onto her, trying to rearrange her legs round his but they seem far away and vague. He pants hotly, pulling away at their clothes until it's skin on skin, lean muscles flickering and flaring in unison.  She thinks, always, of how much easier things would be if she were smaller and less broad and with hands that know what they should be doing, but all he sees and feels is strength and also how soft her skin is, how he wants to know how she got that scar on her ribs, and how surprisingly neat her waist is, and how she seems to like it when his teeth catch her nipples, and that if he’s on speaking terms with her after this, he’s going to treat her to a wardrobe that isn't jeans and baggy sweaters.

He's always glancing at her, dark dark eyes, and she stares back, Dutch courage and disbelief at the reality she finds herself in. Her whole body burns and Jaime clocks it, thank God, grins and huffs, reaches down and makes her hips buck and her mouth whimper. He finds her spot and brings her close enough, _don't stop_ , to make her dig long fingers into his back and bury her nose into his neck. His own face twitches, a needy flicker in his eyes which she somehow knows how to feed, just as he has done to her. She shifts underneath him, legs apart and blinks furiously. She can't speak, her tongue thickened by ignorance and innocence and an edge of shyness that won't be hidden whatever she tries. Jaime brushes her hair from forehead for a second and she takes a breath but then she gasps as he fills her. A bright starburst of pain, but he rocks her, and the beat of her want is finally _finally_ matched. She holds onto him, never wants to let go, it's odd and new and hot, she can feel how sticky they are, the sweat on Jaime’s back as he thrusts into her. He suddenly speeds up, and like her on him, the grip he has tightens until he moans throatfully into her ear.   
  
They part and pant and stare the ceiling and have a moment in their own worlds which have suddenly and unexpectedly collided so that now whatever happens it can't easily be undone, a threshold crossed, for him, the first time after her, and for her, the first time ever.  
  
She wonders if she should say something. Jaime isn't usually silent. He's embarrassed. She's mortified. She sits up, looks glaringly for her clothes and slips on a t-shirt. Jaime runs a hand up her spine and murmurs something, she turns to ask for it to be repeated, he nods towards his bedroom door. A shoulder goes up and down, a don't know, a don't think I should stay, a we can blame this on the drink if you want. Jaime sits up next to her. Their thighs are of equal length, Brienne’s inch is in her torso. He’s saying something but she can't hear it above her heartbeat so he speaks a little louder.

He wants to tell her that he's wasted enough of his forty years with wrong choices but that she, this, is definitely not one of them and that she made him a better man by being his friend, that he fell in love with her – well he can’t remember exactly when, but it's been a bloody long time – and that he couldn't quite believe it when she kissed him tonight and that she is fucking amazing and he won't have her being embarrassed, and yes, he can tell she is because she curls up like a hedgehog, because it isn't something she should be embarrassed about, and he definitely isn't, and all he wants is to go to bed with her and wake up with her, and do it all again.  
  
She stares and shakes her head and wants to cry and can't find a speech in her, to say all the things that should be said in response to a declaration like that but instead she whispers a I love you too, out loud this time and face to face, and she'll remember the look in his eyes always as she says it, a tender softness, a romantic's desire fulfilled – because he is a romantic underneath it all – and he kisses her again and they both wonder what took them so bloody long.


End file.
